


nickel for your love

by lordberenger



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Kings Rising
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-03
Updated: 2018-04-03
Packaged: 2019-04-17 21:22:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14197941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lordberenger/pseuds/lordberenger
Summary: Berenger, always serious, starts working immediately. He hasn’t stopped working, really. If Ancel thought that he’d get a reprieve from boring books or secret missives and a shot a celebratory sex, he has to work for it: relaxation is not a language Berenger talks naturally.





	nickel for your love

**Author's Note:**

> So I read all of capri and pet recently and I got overwhelmed with this pairing, which is criminally underrepresented on here.

Ancel doesn’t know what he expected to happen, after.

He remembers the tense weeks following the Prince’s departure from the court at Arles, the slow and insidious spreading of the Regent’s authority, unchallenged and unchecked.

He feared for Berenger and his loyalty to the Prince, in those days. He’d even come to dread the whispers of the court, once he’d realized how flimsy their fate was. There had been talk to retreat back to Berenger’s lands in Varenne, but they had been subtly and politely informed of the consequences they would face should they try to escape the Regent’s clutches.

Then they’d be informed again, less subtly, less politely.

There had been talk of ending Ancel’s contract exactly one more time, until Ancel told Berenger in no uncertain terms that he would not stand for it and pushed him down on the bed, effectively putting an end to the conversation.

Still, the short period of hesitation that follows the departure of the Regent for Akielos, during which information is long to come by and difficult to make sense of, isn’t immediately alleviated when the blue-clad riders start coming and spreading the news.

_Prince Laurent of Vere is victorious. The Regent is dead._

Ancel remembers the realization, fierce and sharp, the relief that followed, and, ultimately, the satisfaction: he was right. Berenger was right to support the Prince. Ancel was right to insist on that particular outcome. Right to stay by Berenger’s side.

Berenger, always serious, starts working immediately. He hasn’t stopped working, really. If Ancel thought that he’d get a reprieve from boring books or secret missives and a shot a celebratory sex, he has to work for it: relaxation is not a language Berenger talks naturally.

He’s learning it, though. Ancel is a good teacher, although there is no doubt that Berenger is a virgin behind all his dull brown jackets. He’s teaching things to Ancel, too: how to fuck, and how to enjoy sex, among other things. It turns out that Berenger doesn’t mind laying down either: maybe his interest in Ancel was born from more than the way he’d played all those noblemen in the ring, after all.

The first time Berenger puts his mouth on him, Ancel comes so fast that he can’t look at Berenger in the eyes for a full ten minutes afterward, so he turns on his side and lets Berenger slide his oiled cock between his thighs, enjoying the warmth of Berenger’s chest against his back and the weight of his mouth on his.

_I’d sleep with you right now. I might even enjoy it for once._ Ancel has said that once, and now he can say with full certainty that he does enjoy it.

Which is why it’s so maddening that Berenger is back to his full-time busy schedule, now that he’s richer and closer to the circles of power than he’s ever been.

Prince Laurent headed back north shortly after his messengers announced him. He was alone, despite the rumours, but he knew to reward those who’d helped him, and efficiently dispose or convert the others to his side. Berenger was accorded riches and more lands. Privileges, too. There was a long discussion about horses: something they both have in common, from what Ancel gathered from the crypted conversation, full of double-meanings.

So Berenger delayed his return to his isolated manor and worked twice as hard, their time together being more and more eaten away.

It’s not that Ancel isn’t understanding. He gets working hard and making sacrifices towards a goal. But the frustration remains. He’s bored all day, and well into the evening too, working on his reading skills with some of the easiest and most entertaining volumes of Berenger’s collection. It’s a series of etiological Veretian myths, written in a pure and simple style—according to Berenger.

It’s not as interesting as the shifts of muscles under Berenger’s jackets when he writes or sits back in his chair. Or his fingers, long and sturdy, curled around a quill when Ancel knows intimately how they feel around his cock.

Once, Ancel had wanted the Prince’s attention like nothing else in the world. Now, he wishes he’d go back to his lover— _King Damianos_ — in Akielos early and let Berenger decide how to best use his time. Chances are, on his own, Berenger would still choose books. But Ancel can be persuasive.

The thought sticks with him one particular night, after they’ve come back from a feast given in honour of the ambassadors sent by Patras and Vask to congratulate the new ruler of Vere and get assured of his peaceful intentions. The blonde meek slave was there, the one who was scared of fire and was apparently used as a pawn in a diplomatic move hidden behind the cover of philanthropy. Ancel didn’t bother to learn his name, although he is part of the ambassador’s retinue, because there is no use of his talents with Torveld, lovesick as he is of the slave.

It strikes Ancel suddenly, the jealousy, when he sees Torveld feed the slave sweetmeats at the table, following the Veretian custom, or when they retire for the night, touching all the while. When Ancel and Berenger retire for the night, it’s only for a brief conversation across the room as Ancel settles by the fire and Berenger at his desk, then the silence of the hard-working statesman.

And of the very bored lover.

Ancel turns a page, then two, without reading them properly. The words mix in front of his eyes and he can’t even appreciate the ridiculously precise drawings illustrating the pages. He closes the book with a thump, then reclines on the couch, drawing one leg up. His pants ride up slightly, discovering on his foot up to the calf, the brush of fine silk like torture on his skin.

The scratch of Berenger’s quill doesn’t hitch.

Ancel rakes his fingers in his hair, shaking it out of his long braid. It catches the light of the fire, glowing like only his particular hue can. It has to catch Berenger’s attention, like a beacon of light from the corner of his eyes.

It doesn’t.

Annoyed and frustrated, Ancel gets up slowly, stretching and padding across the room until his shadows projected on the desk falls on the papers Berenger is perusing.

“Yes?” Berenger asks without lifting his eyes. His voice is too poised: he did see Ancel before, and chose not to react.

That won’t do.

“What are you working on?” Ancel asks, leaning elegantly against the desk.

“You’re not actually interested,” Berenger says, putting down his quill.

“I am.” It strays from the script, but he has to say it. “I just won’t get it.”

“Then what can I do for you?”

Berenger takes his hand, looking up at Ancel who’s practically sitting on the desk. His brown jacket—always _brown_ —is still tightly laced at the neck and the sleeves. Despite his precautions, Ancel can spy a little droplet of ink on his right wrist.

It won’t go away. Maybe Ancel can persuade him to throw this one away. Then he’ll only need five other excuses and he can work on replacing all this brown.

“I’m expensive,” Ancel says, back on track. He reaches out to thread his hands in Berenger’s hair, tugging a little when Berenger closes his eyes briefly.

“I know.” A pause, when Ancel leans in, as if for a kiss, and stops just shy of Berenger’s face. “Do you want that necklace, after all?”

“No.”

“No?”

“Tonight I deal another currency,” Ancel practically purrs, leaning closer still. “It’s called your attention.”

He slides in Berenger’s lap in a single practiced move, throwing his arms around his neck. Berenger makes an aborted gesture towards his desk, like he’s reaching for his books, but eventually settles with his hands on Ancel’s waist.

“It’s been a while,” he says, joining their foreheads. His breath his hot on Ancel’s face. “But I really have to finish those plans tonight.”

“It’s been two weeks.” Ancel is closer to snapping than to the pouting tone he was going for. He smooths his callous tone by pressing his lips to Berenger’s neck, relishing in the small shivers that Berenger can’t repress. “I know it’s important, but—”

He draws back, a new plan taking shape in his mind.

Until then, it had been more straightforward than usual, due to Berenger’s all-around willingness to take Ancel to bed, the late hour, and the dry-spell neither of them really agreed on.

“But?” Berenger prompts, smiling, when he catches the look on Ancel’s face.

“I wanted you to fuck me,” Ancel says, rolling his hips once. Twice. Berenger looks interested. His hands slide on Ancel’s back then lower, hot as coils. “I have another idea.”

“I like this one,” Berenger protests. “We should keep it. For after.”

“Yes?” Teasing is Ancel’s territory, and he enjoys the look on Berenger’s face when his imagination goes wilder than he’s used to. “You’d bend me over the desk?”

“The papers,” Berenger says, half-amused, half-horrified.

“What about them?”

“I have to deliver them to Prince Laurent.”

Ancel buries a laugh in Berenger’s chest, feeling the cloth move against his cheek when Berenger joins him.

“That’s why I have another idea,” he says, trailing his fingers over Berenger’s crotch, making quick work of the laces there. “You can even keep working. If you can.”

He slides to his knees and the next time Berenger says his name, it’s with more wanton than he probably intended. Berenger sits back in his chair, spreads his legs to make room for Ancel and drops a hand to his face, caressing his cheek.

Ancel looks up from where he’s been quickly stroking Berenger to fullness. It’s not the look he’s learnt to give to the men he sucked off, heavy and sensual through his long lashes. It’s painfully honest, to reflect the way he feels around Berenger, now that he’s made sense of that strange yearning confusion. It’s the same one he reads in Berenger’s eyes when he brushes his thumb on Ancel’s cheek, his lips.

Ancel parts his lips and sucks the tip in at the second swipe when Berenger lingers a little too long on his lower lip, a prelude of what is to come. He curls his tongue around the pad, feeling the little creases and calluses.

Berenger’s lips fall open, but his eyes never look away from Ancel’s, heavy with feelings that they’re both on the brink of naming.

Suddenly, it’s not enough, and Ancel lets go in favour of the growing bulge in Berenger’s unlaced pants. He frees the cock and gives two pumps, more of a warning than a necessity, because Berenger is still hard as rock, and swallows him.

Berenger likes all sorts of sex, Ancel’s discovered: gentle or hard, long fucks that leave them bare to each other or raw frenzy when they can’t keep their hands off each other. Tonight, Ancel is set on making up for lost time and reminding him what he’s missed: he sets a quick pace, sliding down Berenger’s entire length after a few moments, then drawing back up to the head to tease.

He releases it with an obscene pop to lick a long strip up the shaft, spurred on by the tightness of Berenger’s fingers in his hair.

“Ancel,” he says in an exhale, almost choking on it.

Ancel leaves his left hand on his thigh, palm facing up, and curls it when Berenger slides his in it, tangling their fingers. It’s somehow the most intimate thing Ancel’s done tonight, though he’s successfully swallowing Berenger’s cock down his throat. The little moan he lets out is mostly involuntary.

Berenger’s hips jerk twice, aborted movements that Ancel encourages by drawing back slightly, relaxing his throat. He brushes his thumb against Berenger’s hand, a silent reassurance, until Berenger starts thrusting rhythmically. He's quiet in bed, unlike Ancel, but Ancel’s hum of appreciation is answered by a groan, his name lost in the way.

“You're amazing,” Berenger gasps as his breathing becomes more irregular. He's close.

Ancel, who closed his eyes to savour the weight of him and the salty taste of precum that leaks in earnest, opens one eye to stare at him until Berenger answers the silent accusation: “And not just because you're sucking my cock,” he huffs.

The perfect retort is burning his mouth, so Ancel sits up on his heels and speeds up for the final climb to climax, deep slides and the brush of his tongue on the sensitive vein under the head.

Berenger comes with his eyes closed, his lips curled in a silent O. His hand shakes in Ancel’s hair, carding the strands back away from his face and the drop of come at the corner of his mouth. Ancel wipes it away from his mouth, satisfied with the look in Berenger’s eyes.

“I’m amazing in plenty of ways,” he says, slouching slightly against Berenger’s leg. “Come and find out.”

“I've already come.”

Ancel blinks up at Berenger, speechless for a moment.

“Was that a pun?” he asks, incredulous. Then, delighted: “That _was_ a pun!”

Berenger’s smile is easy, happy to be found out. He draws Ancel onto his lap again, kissing him deeply through their twin smiles. It lands a little off-center, but Ancel is already reaching up for more, so Berenger gives him another one, then a third. Then his hand is sneaking inside Ancel’s silky pants, and he stops counting.

**Author's Note:**

> @[lordberenger](http://lordberenger.tumblr.com).


End file.
